'Hm,' he said, studying the sword and dagger on the stool beside him. 'I think Sebastian is right,' he went on after a moment. 'You've grown up too fast.'
He picked up his weapons and buckled them on. I had seen him do this a thousand times, but on this occasion, the clink of steel made my skin prickle. Finally, he donned his broad-brimmed hat, which cast a shadow over his face.
'You're quite the man now,' he added. 'Capable of raising your voice and, of course, of killing. But capable, too, of dying. Try to remember that when you talk to me about certain things.'
He continued to fix me with the same cold stare, as if he had just seen me for the first time. And then I did feel afraid.
The washing festooned along the narrow streets resembled shrouds floating in the darkness. Diego Alatriste left the broad, paved Via Toledo, with torches blazing at every corner, and made his way into the Spanish quarter, whose steep, straight streets rose up the gloomy San Elmo hill. You could just make out the castle above, still vaguely lit by the fading, reddish light from Vesuvius. Having stirred into life in recent days, the volcano was now falling asleep once more. A brief wisp of smoke hovered over the crater, its red glow reflected only faintly by the clouds and on the waters in the bay.
As soon as he felt safe among the shadows, Captain Alatriste allowed himself to vomit, grunting like a pig. He remained there for a while, leaning his head against the wall and holding his hat in one hand, until the world around him stopped spinning and a bitter clarity of mind replaced the vapours from the wine he had drunk — a lethal mixture of Greco, Mangiaguerra, Latino and Lacrima Christi. This was hardly surprising — he had spent all evening and part of the night alone, going from tavern to tavern, avoiding any comrades he met on that Via Crucis, and only opening his mouth to ask for more wine.
He looked behind him, towards the brightly lit Via Toledo, in case there should be any witnesses. He had sent the Moor Gurriato away with a flea in his ear, and he would probably now be sleeping in the modest barracks in Monte Calvario. There wasn't a soul in sight, so only the sound of his footsteps accompanied him when he put on his hat again and set off, orienting himself down the dark streets. He crossed Via Sperancella, making sure the hilt of his sword was easily accessible and keeping to the middle of the street to avoid any unfortunate encounters in porches or at corners, and then he continued on until he reached the arches where the street narrowed. Turning right, he walked as far as the small square and church of the Trinita dei Spagnuoli. That area of Naples brought him good memories and bad, but it was the latter that had been stirred into life again that afternoon. Despite the years that had passed, they were still there, fresh and vivid, like mosquitoes refusing to drown in a glass of wine.
It wasn't just that he had killed a man and scarred a woman's face. It wasn't a matter of remorse or of an ache that could be relieved by going into a church and kneeling down in front of a priest, in the unlikely event that Diego Alatriste would enter a church other than to seek refuge from the Law. He had killed many people during his forty-five years and knew that he would kill many more before the time came when he would have to pay for all his misdemeanours. No, the problem was of quite a different order, and the wine had helped him first to digest it and then to vomit it up. What dogged him was the chilling certainty that every step he took in life, every sword-thrust to left or right, every scrap of money he earned, every drop of blood that spattered his clothes, all formed a kind of damp mist, a smell that clung to his skin like the scent of a fire or a war. The smell of life, of the passing years with no turning back, of the uncertain, hesitant, or resolute steps he took, each one of which determined the steps that would follow. It was the smell of resignation and impotence before an irrevocable destiny. Some men tried to disguise that smell with fantastical perfumes or to ignore it by averting their gaze, while others steadfastly breathed it in, facing it head on, aware that every game, even life and death, had its rules.
Before he reached the church of San Matteo, Diego Alatriste took the first street on the left. The inn of Ana de Osorio was only a few steps away and was always lit at night by the candles that burned in the three or four wall niches dedicated to the Virgin and to various saints. When he reached the door, he looked up from beneath the brim of his hat at the dark sky between the houses and the lines of washing hung out to dry. Time changes some places and leaves others untouched, he thought, but it always changes your heart. Then he muttered an oath and went slowly up the unlit stairs that creaked beneath his boots. He opened the door to his room, fumbled around for flint and steel, and lit an oil lamp
hanging from a beam. He unbuckled his belt, threw his weapons on the floor, not caring who he might wake up, then went in search of the demijohn of wine he kept in a corner and quietly cursed again when he found it empty.
The serenity he had felt at being back in Naples had vanished that afternoon with a brief conversation in the street below and with the realisation, once again, that nobody goes through life unscathed, and that with just a few rash words, a lad of seventeen could become a mirror in which one saw one's own reflection, along with the scars and disquieting memories that can only be avoided by those who have not lived enough. Someone had written that travelling and books led to wisdom. This was true, perhaps, for some men, but in the case of Diego Alatriste they led to a table in a tavern.
A couple of days later, I found myself involved in a curious incident. I will describe it to you now just to show that, despite the grand airs I put on and everything I had experienced during those years, I was still very much a babe newly weaned.
I was returning in the small hours from guard duty next to what we called the Alcala tower, near Uovo Castle. Apart from the vague reddish glow in the sky above the volcano and its reflection in the waters of the bay, it was a dark night. As I walked up Santa Lucia, past the church, near the fountains and next to the little chapel there, which was adorned with ex-votos depicting babies, legs and eyes made from wax and brass, as well as bunches of withered flowers, medallions and almost anything else you care to name, I made out the figure of a woman on her own, her cloak wrapped about her. Being in that place at that hour, I thought, meant that she was either very devout or was craftily setting her nets. Anyway, on the premise that, to a young falcon, all flesh
is good flesh, I slowed my pace, trying to get a look at her in the dim light of the oil-lamps burning on the altar. She seemed quite a handsome woman, and as I approached, I perceived the rustle of silk and the smell of amber. This, I thought, meant that she was no mere prostitute, and so I showed more interest, trying to catch a glimpse of her face, which was almost hidden by her mantilla. The parts of her I could see were very pleasing.
'Svergognato anda il bello galante,
she said charmingly.
'I'm not forward at all,' I responded calmly, 'but no man could remain indifferent before such beauty.'
I was encouraged by her voice, which was young and clear and Italian, not like the voices of so many of our proud compatriots, whether Andalusian or not, who worked in Italy and made out that they were of the highest nobility, yet always addressed potential clients in plain Castilian. I was standing in front of her now but still could not see her face, although her figure, which pleased me greatly, was silhouetted against the glow from the altar. Her mantilla seemed to be made of the finest silk, and from the little I could see of her, I was tempted to buy the whole bale.
lTan sicura crede Lei tener la sua cacciaT
she asked slyly.
I may have been young, but I was not entirely a fool. When I heard those words, I was sure: she was a lady of the night, albeit dressed as a lady of quality. She was not at all like the ordinary whores, trulls, drabs and stales who hung about on street corners, the kind who swore they would faint at the sight of a mouse, but didn't turn a hair when they saw half a company of harquebusiers arrive for business.
'I'm not on the hunt,' I said simply. 'I've just come off duty, and I feel more like sleeping than anything else.'
She studied me in the dim light, weighing me up. I assume my youth was evident in my face and my voice. I could almost hear her thinking.
'Spagnuolo e soldato bisogno
,' she concluded scornfully.
'Piu fanfaronata che argento.'
There she touched a nerve.
'Bisogno
was the nickname given to the new Spanish soldiers who arrived in Naples as innocent as Carib tribesmen, unable to speak the language, apart from the word '
bisogno
' — 'I need'. And, as I say, I was very young. Anyway, somewhat piqued, I patted my purse, which contained three silver carlins, one piece of eight and a few smaller coins. I was forgetting, of course, Don Francisco de Quevedo's sage advice: 'When it comes to women, choose the cheapest.'
'Ml piace il discorso
,' said the lady pirate with great aplomb.
And without more ado, she took my hand and tugged at me gently. Her hand was small and warm and young. That assuaged my fear that she might simply be putting on a youthful voice and that, beneath the disguise, I would find a haggard old whore trying to pass herself off as a sweet virgin. I still hadn't seen her face though. Then I decided to clarify the situation, saying that I had no intention of going as far as she was offering to go. However, fearing — fool that I was — that I might offend her with a brusque negative, I remained somewhat ambiguous. And so, when I told her that I was going back to my inn, she bemoaned my lack of manners in allowing her to return to her house unaccompanied; besides, her house was close by, in Pizzofalcone, at the top of those steps. A woman alone and at night, she said, must avoid any unfortunate encounters. As a final flourish, she allowed her mantilla to slip a little, as if by accident, revealing a firm mouth, very white skin and the kind of dark eyes that pierce and kill in a trice.
There was nothing more to be said, and we walked along, arm in arm, with me breathing in her amber perfume, listening to the rustle of silk and thinking, with every step, and despite all my experience to date, that I was merely accompanying a woman through the streets of Naples and that nothing bad could possibly come of it. I even doubted, in my innocence, that she really was a strumpet. It occurred to me that she was perhaps merely a capricious young girl, a strange miracle of the night, out on a youthful adventure. You can see how very stupid I was.
' Vieni qua, galantuomo.'
These words, spoken in a whisper, were accompanied by a caress to my cheek, which did not displease me. We reached her house, or what I took to be her house, and the sweet girl removed a key from under her cloak and opened the door. I may have been losing what little sense I had, but I noticed at once how sordid the place was, which put me on the alert. I tried to say goodbye, but she again took my hand. We had walked up the steps that go from Santa Lucia to the first houses in Pizzofalcone — the large barracks I lived in years later had not yet been built — and once through the door, we entered a deep, dark, musty hallway. She clapped her hands, and an old serving-woman arrived bearing a light. She led us up more stairs to a room furnished only with a mat, two chairs, a table and a straw mattress. That room dispelled all my fantasies: this was clearly not a private house, but a place where flesh was bought and sold, one of those places that abound in fake mothers, shopkeepers selling their own nieces and very distant cousins. As the poet says:
The comely widow dressed in black Swears to everyone, it's said, That fearing to see her husband's ghost She much prefers to share her bed
Anyway, the woman removed her mantilla and revealed a reasonably attractive face, although rather more heavily made up and less youthful than it had seemed to me in the dark. She started telling me a long unlikely tale about a jewel a female friend of hers had pawned, and about a cousin or brother of one or the other, and some money that she needed desperately in order to save the honour of both ladies, and I don't know what else, but all very pertinent no doubt. I, meanwhile, hadn't even sat down and was still standing there, with my hat in my hand and my sword in my belt, waiting for her to finish speaking. My idea was to deposit a few coins on the table, in payment for wasting her time, then leave. However, before I could put that plan into action, the door opened again and, just as if we were in a farce by Quinones de Benavente, the villain of the piece made his entrance.
'Gadzooks!' quoth the villain.
He was Spanish, dressed as a soldier, and bore himself very proudly, although clearly there was nothing of the military about him, and the closest he had ever got to a Lutheran or a Turk had been in the theatre. Otherwise, he was like a character straight out of a book, all bluster and bravado, swearing by Christ's wounds and affecting a false Andalusian accent as if he had just come hotfoot from Seville. He had the inevitable waxed moustache proper to all swashbucklers, and, having stalked into the room, he immediately struck a pose, legs astride, one fist on his waist and the other on the hilt of a sword seven spans long. He pronounced his 'g's as 'h's and his 'h's as 'j's — a sure sign of unassailable bravery. In short, he was the very image of the kind of pimp who takes young girls and lives off the fruits of their hard labour whilst he boasts of having killed no end of men, of regularly handing out beatings before he's even had breakfast, roughing up whores in the presence of their bully-boys, making mincemeat of catchpoles, holding his tongue on the rack, enjoying the admiration, respect and affection of his fellow ruffians, and Lord knows what else.
'God's teeth!' he spluttered, frowning furiously, 'I've told you before, Senora, that for the sake of my honour, you must never bring another man into this house!'
He continued in the same vein for some time, declaiming as if from a pulpit, thundering against the treachery and scandal brought on him by his dam. He declared that, even captive in Algiers, he would not have suffered such humiliation, and warned that his sword was very sharp, by God. Because when the rage took him and his bile was up, by all that's holy, he could as lief kill two as two hundred. He was within an ace of marking that trollop's face with the sign of the cross so that she would learn once and for all that Cannibals and Gorillas like him (he meant, of course, to say Hannibals and Attilas) would not put up with such excesses, and if anyone should abuse his good faith and try to put horns on his head, his wrath would be terrible to see. And woe betide the Turk in question if he, too, wasn't man enough to dispatch seven men and put them well beyond the help of any surgeon. By the Eternal Father and the mother who bore him, et cetera, et cetera.
While this jewel of the scoundrelry babbled on, I stayed where I was, my back to the wall, hat in hand and sword in sheath, saying nothing, but waiting to see when he would finally get to the point. And so I had the leisure to observe the poor sinner, who took her role very seriously, like someone who knows both words and music, and was looking troubled and contrite and fearful, wringing her hands in great sorrow, and occasionally interposing excuses and pleas. Her better half, without ceasing his deluge of words, would now and then raise his hand from his hip as if to slap her, only to hold back at the last moment. And he did all this without once looking at me.
'So,' said the pimp, coming at last to the nub of the matter, 'we'll have to reach some arrangement; otherwise, I can't be answerable for my actions.'
I stood where I was, silently studying him, while I pondered what Captain Alatriste would do in my shoes. However, as soon as I heard the words 'arrangement' and 'actions', I moved away from the wall and lunged at the villain so quickly that I had put my hand to my dagger, unsheathed it and slashed his face before he could cry 'God save me'. I didn't see much else apart from the braggart collapsing with a gash above his ear, his whore rushing to his aid with a yelp of horror, and then, fleetingly, the steps in the house and then those of Santa Lucia, which I took four at a time and in the dark, risking a fall, as I fled as fast as my young legs would carry me. For as the saying goes — and quite right too — it's every man for himself and the Devil take the hindmost.
Chapter 8. THE CHORRILLO INN
Captain Alonso de Contreras was drinking from a fountain, cupping the water in his hands. Then, drying his bristly moustache on the sleeve of his doublet, he looked across at Vesuvius, whose plume of smoke melted into the low clouds on the far side of the bay. He took a deep, satisfied breath of the cool breeze blowing along the dock, where his frigate, ready to set sail, was moored alongside a square-rigged French vessel and two galleys belonging to the Pope. Beside him, Diego Alatriste also took a drink from the fountain, and then they both continued their walk towards the imposing black towers of Castel Nuovo.
It was midday, and beneath their feet the sun and the breeze were gradually drying the rivulets of blood left by eight Morisco corsairs who had been beaten to death in the early hours of that morning, almost as soon as they stepped off the galleys that had captured them off Cape Colonna five days earlier.
'I hate leaving Naples,' Contreras said. 'Lampedusa is so small and in Sicily I have the Viceroy on my back. Here, I feel free again, I even feel younger. I swear to God, this place could rejuvenate anyone, don't you agree?'
'I suppose so, although I think it might take rather more than that to rejuvenate us.'
'You're right. It's as if time were travelling post-haste. Speaking of post, I've just come from Don Francisco's, and someone said there was a letter for you. I've had a letter myself from Lope de Vega. Our protégé Lopito will be coming
to Naples at the end of the summer. Poor lad, eh? And poor Laura — dead from a fever after only six months of marriage. God, how time flies! That trick we played on her uncle seems like only yesterday, and yet it's a whole year ago.'
Alatriste said nothing, his thoughts elsewhere. He was still staring at the dark stains that ran from the quay to the Customs house. The men from whose bodies the blood had flowed had been part of a group of twenty-seven corsairs from Algiers — all of them Moriscos — captured on board a brigantine that had plundered a number of ships along the coasts of Calabria and Sicily, among them a Neapolitan vessel on which every single member of the crew — from captain to cabin boy — had been put to death for flying the Spanish flag. As the prisoners were being taken off the vessel, those recently widowed and orphaned stood on the quay alongside the crowd that usually gathered for the arrival of galleys. Such was the public anger that, after a brief consultation with the bishops, the Viceroy agreed that those who were prepared to die as Christians would be hanged in three days' time without suffering any further torture, but those who refused to accept the one true faith would be handed over to the people, who were clamouring for a more immediate form of justice. Eight of the Moriscos, all of them
tagarinos —
Spanish Muslims from the same Aragonese village, Villefeliche — spurned the priests waiting for them on the quayside and affirmed their faith in Islam. It therefore fell to some Neapolitan boys, the urchins of street and port, to beat them to death with sticks and stones.
The bodies had been displayed beneath the lantern on the quay and on the tower of San Vicente; now what was left of them was being burned, amid much celebration, on the other side of the smaller harbour in La Marinella.
'By the way,' Contreras said, adopting a confidential tone, 'there's going to be another raid on the Levant. I've been asked to lend them Gorgos, my pilot, and they've spent days consulting my
Universal Map,
which details almost every inch of these coasts. And while I'm honoured that they should do so, I'm angry, too. I haven't seen my
magnum opus
since Prince Filiberto asked to borrow it in order to have a copy made. And whenever I demand it back, those bloodsucking cockroaches in black fob me off with excuses, devil take 'em!'
'Galleys or sailing ships?' Alatriste asked.
With a sigh, Contreras put thoughts of his map to one side.
'Galleys. Ours and those belonging to the Knights, I understand. The
Mulata
is one of them. So you have a campaign to look forward to.'
'A long one?'
'Fairly. They're saying one month or two, beyond the Mayna channel, possibly even as far east as the Dardanelles, where, as I recall, you wouldn't need a guide.'